


Until Your Blood is Out

by Niobium



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, Gen, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Thor: The Dark World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niobium/pseuds/Niobium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sif hates dealing with Thor’s thick head almost as much as she hates the smell of a necromancer’s rotting army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Your Blood is Out

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt at comment_fic: [elements, any, any, metal, blood, and bone](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/498074.html?thread=73492890#t73492890). 
> 
> Set sometime during Thor’s work to get the realms back in whatever passes for order by Asgardian standards (i.e. after the events of _The Avengers_ but before most of _The Dark World_ ).
> 
> The graphic violence is mostly in the form of icky details, so heed the warning, folks.
> 
> I have borrowed things here and there from Norse myth, as well as made some things up, because I don’t know anything about the comics and the movies are fertile ground for world-building.

***

Sif sighed at the mess surrounding her. Metal, blood, and bone covered the once-green hills of the Álfheimr battlefield in a sticky carpet interspersed with piles of detritus, gleaming white and ash gray and brackish red under the hot, midday sun.

Fandral said, “Wouldn’t have thought it possible for them to smell worse dead than alive,” and held a hand to his nose for a moment before sliding off his horse. He had only just joined her from the south. “Almost makes me wish we hadn’t destroyed that phylactery.” 

Sif wiped the sweat off her brow. “It was worse when they were animated, trust me.” ‘Worse’ was a ridiculous understatement, but there would be time for her to tell the tale of leading the Æsir forces overland while Thor, Hogun, Fandral, and Volstagg stormed the crypt _after_ she had finished scouting, around a fire and with mead to hand. 

Which begged the question of why Fandral had ridden out to join her, but Sif was sure he’d get to that eventually. A raven croaked a warning at her as she passed by its roost; numerous of its brethren dotted other malignant heaps, squabbling over the choice bits. 

Fandral flipped a piece of scarred armor over with his boot and coughed. “They didn’t explode, did they?”

“No, thankfully.” Sif grimaced at the thought. Who knew what foul poisons lurked in the marrow of a necromancer’s constructs. “They collapsed.”

“Much like the acolytes under our weapons, then.”

“Does that mean the battle in the crypt went well?”

“Well enough. They sent only a handful of ours on to Valhalla, while the fiend himself and those with him in the crypt are slain.” 

Fandral was a master of conveying much with only subtle shifts in his voice, and he was doing it now. Sif left off her examination of a tangle of bones and armor and scrutinized him. 

“Some escaped?”

“We’re reasonably sure there is at least one group who didn’t come to his aid. And it’s said he had an apprentice.”

As problematic and unsettling as that was, she had a sense that wasn’t what Fandral was referring to. Which left... 

“How fares Thor?”

“Oh, the usual--took a spear with who knows what enchantment on it through his shoulder and won’t sit still long enough for a healer to look at it.” Fandral tilted a narrow-snouted skull with his sword and looked askance at her. “Hogun’s keeping an eye on him.”

Sif ground her teeth. “Where?”

“Discussing how to track down the rest of the cult.” Fandral nodded towards the south, where they’d set up camp among the Ljósálfr army in a glade. Sif made for her horse.

“Can you finish the sweep of the west hills alone?”

“I should be fine. I’ll call if I’m not.” He tapped the curved, ivory and silver horn dangling from his belt, then raised his eyebrows. “Though if you’re planning on knocking some sense into Thor, don’t expect me back until _after_ you’re done.”

Sif huffed in morbid amusement and swung into the saddle. She turned Jófast towards the purple- and blue-leaved trees that shimmered in the distance, and put her to a run.

***

The contingent who’d been in the crypt all looked entirely out of place in the glade’s pristine beauty, covered in grave dust and gore and who knew what else as they were. They were assembled around a table in the Ljósálfr warhost’s staging area with the Ljósálfr high general, Æringunnr, two of her subgenerals, and a handful of pages. The army’s tents shifted in a breeze which kept the stench of the mouldering constructs out of the woods--Thor’s doing, probably--and Ljósálfar bustled about in their post-victory tasks.

Everyone gave her nods of greeting as she approached the table. Hogun asked Æringunnr, “Are there any other sites they could use to raise a similar force?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She tapped two locations on the map with her elegant, bony fingers, and the enchanted ink scrawled out descriptions and distances. “These ruins were once a grand palace. The final battle fought there was bloody.” One of her hands swept over the other location. “And on this plain two countries waged war for hundreds of years.”

“Fertile ground for necromancy,” Thor said, and straightened. “Do we have enough scouts to send to both locations?”

Æringunnr nodded and made a complex gesture. A Ljósálfr page stepped forward, and the general began giving her a series of detailed instructions. Sif took the opportunity to move closer to Thor, noting the conspicuous splotch of red staining the left shoulder of his breastplate. 

He turned to her and asked, “So they are unmade?” and she nodded.

“We did not see anything moving as far as the river, just remains. Fandral will report back after he’s been through the western hills.”

Thor frowned. “And why have you returned?”

“There is a matter on which I would speak with you.” She took in Volstagg and Hogun with a glance, and Thor tilted his head. Sif added, “In private.”

Thor nodded and gave the general their regards, and they wound through the camp to the small cluster of Asgardian tents. They stood out from their allies’, being largely golden- or silver-toned and emblazoned with the knot-work and crest of Asgard in bold red, while the Ljósálfar used special materials that blended in with the landscape’s reflected colors. From a distance they could be nearly impossible to discern from the landscape. 

Sif watched Thor walk in her peripheral vision, noting how he favored his left side, and caught Hogun watching her. She gave him a minute nod, which he echoed in response.

Once they were inside Thor’s tent they all set aside their weapons. Thor made a face as he placed Mjölnir on a low table. 

“Fandral says the battle in the crypt went well,” Sif said. Thor turned to face her as he pulled off his cape and folded it up. There could be no doubting it, he was favoring his left side. 

“As well as we could have hoped. Volstagg and the Ljósálfar and I dealt with the acolytes while Hogun and the Vanr priests destroyed the relic.”

“There were only acolytes?”

“The necromancer himself as well,” Volstagg said. Thor cut him a sharp look, which Volstagg cheerfully ignored for the opportunity to tell their tale to someone who hadn’t heard it yet. “He had _quite_ the arsenal. Poisoned darts, disgusting bird constructs, some sort of foul liquid he kept throwing at everyone—oh, and an ensorcelled spear, Thor took the brunt of that.”

Sif’s eyes didn’t leave Thor; he was keeping himself busy cleaning his face and neck from a basin while Volstagg spoke. “Did he?” she asked. “Have the healers seen to it?”

“It was nothing.”

Sif took a step closer to him. “A necromancer’s weapons are never nothing, Thor.”

He toweled off his face and straightened. “I have had worse from you in training.”

“No doubt, but I don’t poison my weapons or place enchantments on them.” Thor muttered something under his breath, and Sif called out over her shoulder, “Page.” A young, bronze-skinned girl with a riot of curly, red-black hair stuck her head in the tent flap. “Send for a healer.”

“No,” Thor said. “It will not be necessary.” 

The girl froze in place, and her dark eyes darted from Sif to Thor and back. Sif’s short supply of patience was spent. 

“ _Stop_ being stupid,” she snapped. She was rewarded with Thor turning to face her, eyes bright with irritation. _Finally_ , she thought, _something other than his useless sulking_. “What _exactly_ does running around with an untreated injury accomplish?”

“The healers have others to attend to. They will see to me when—”

“When what, you pass out in the middle of a battle?”

“The battle is _over_ last I saw.”

“ _This_ battle is, but we have many more in front of us before the peace is secured. What must happen for you to take your own welfare seriously?” 

Thor turned away from her and tossed his towel aside. His sharp movements as he pulled off his vambraces betrayed what he wouldn’t say, and Sif pressed onward. “Must you fall off the Bifrost from weariness and find yourself stranded who knows where in the branches of the World Ash, so we must come and find you?” 

She felt Volstagg and Hogun’s stares on the two of them. Thor faced her again in a swift turn, and the walls of the test shuddered in a gust of wind. “I take them as seriously as they must be taken. There are others far more gravely injured than myself.”

“And no lack of healers. You are making excuses.”

Hogun said, “I can send for one of the priests, if you would prefer it,” and that he didn’t wilt under the quelling look Thor gave him spoke to Hogun’s own resilience. Sif, however, was done with being resilient in the face of rampant stupidity.

“When we lose a battle and the lives of countless Einherjar because you can’t think straight, will you consent to be healed _then_?” Thor’s jaw worked. Armor and weapons rattled outside as the wind blew stronger. “Or must we wait for you to drop dead?”

 _That_ did it. The blinding flash overhead probably drew startled shouts, but they couldn’t be heard over the ear-splitting crack of thunder colored with Thor’s own voice.

“ _Enough!_ ” 

The outburst she had expected, really had been what she was hoping for after month upon month of his silence and brooding, but not what followed on its heels. No sooner had the sound died than Thor went deathly pale and staggered back, and he might have collapsed all-together had Volstagg and Hogun not taken him by the shoulders and settled him onto a bench. Hogun’s hand came away covered in blood.

Sif turned and saw the page was still there, crouched like a predator ready to spring. “Healer. _Now_ ,” she said, and the girl bolted away. 

Hogun and Volstagg took care in pulling off Thor’s breastplate. Without the metal to hide it, the injury looked fresh rather than hours old. 

“It’s not mending.” Volstagg’s voice was tight with concern. “It should be closed by now, shouldn’t it?”

“Necromancy,” Hogun said, his tone making the word a curse. “I’ll get fresh water.” He left with a speed that rivaled that of the page.

Sif crouched next to Thor. “Imbecile. What were you thinking.”

Thor took a handful of unsteady breaths. “It didn’t feel like this a minute ago.”

“Nor did you look like this a minute ago.” Volstagg and Sif took turns examining the wound, which showed no signs of knitting like it should have.

“Are you injured anywhere else?” Sif asked, and she looked Thor over, but saw nothing. He shook his head.

“No.”

Volstagg frowned. “You didn’t catch one of those darts, did you?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Not that I felt.”

Scrutinizing Thor’s armor yielded nothing outside the ordinary damage one might expect from a battle. Just as Sif was starting to get worried, Hogun returned with a bowl of steaming water and clean clothes, and the Ljósálfr healer and her assistant were right behind him.

The healer was short and rotund, with olive-green skin, wiry, white hair in an elaborate crown braid, and dark gold eyes. Her assistant looked no older than the page who’d fetched them, and wore her dark blue hair in a similar style, though her eyes were cloudy blue and her skin was coppery red. They were outfitted in the simple green linens the Ljósálfr healers favored, and the assistant toted a large, black, leather pack that was nearly as tall as she was.

The healer took one look at Thor and waved Volstagg aside. “Make room for us. Not you, though,” she pointed one knotted finger at Sif, “I’ll need you to hold him still.”

Volstagg joined Hogun, who was setting Thor’s armor aside to make more room on the table. The healer took his place and gestured at her assistant, who set the pack on a cot and flipped it open. The interior was crammed with containers filled with powders, liquids, and herbs, pouches bulging with who knew what, and metal instruments, all held in place with straps and strings.

“I don’t suppose you took the weapon which made this injury as a trophy?” she asked Thor. He raised his eyebrows at Volstagg, who shook his head.

“It crumbled when the necromancer fell.” The healer raised a snowy eyebrow, and he clarified, “I took off his head with my axe.”

“Well done,” she said, and Volstagg beamed. “Even if it _is_ a pity we don’t have the weapon.” Her comment dampened Volstagg’s spirits somewhat, and Hogun shot him a sympathetic look.

She poked and prodded at Thor’s shoulder while he did an admirable job of holding still, then said, “If you don’t mind,” and without waiting for an answer from anyone she swept a dab of blood onto one finger and tasted it. Sif was too concerned to be squeamish about methods, and Hogun was similarly unfazed, but Volstagg blanched and Thor gave the healer a dazed look. Her face screwed up and she spat aside into a basin.

“Of course,” she said, “what else was I expecting,” and snapped her fingers at the assistant. “Tongs.”

Sif helped Thor stay upright, and the healer began the ugly work of inspecting the injury’s internal effects. After a moment she locked the tongs onto something and drew it out.

“Ah, ah, ah, what have we here,” she said, and held her find up to the light. A short, thin shard of a glassy, porous material shown white and gray where it wasn’t coated in blood. “Quite the nasty character, was our enemy.”

“What is it?” Sif asked. 

“Betrayer’s Bones,” Hogun said. At Sif’s confused look, he explained, “Foul magic from the days of the wars between the Vanir and the Ljósálfar.”

The healer nodded and dropped the fragment onto a clean cloth held out by her assistant. “As our learned Vanr friend says. This is how you fight magic too powerful to overcome.” She yanked out another, larger piece, and Thor let out a breath. “You turn it on itself.”

Volstagg loomed over the assistant, staring at the shards in horror. “How is that possible?”

The healer made an amused noise as she worked another piece free. To his credit, Thor wasn’t moving an inch, though his knuckles were white where he gripped the ironwood bench, and he was completely rigid. “Is necromancy not the art of perverting the natural?” the healer said. “Who better to know how to cause magic to poison its own wellspring and wielder than one who shapes unlife from death.” 

She found two more, inspected the wound one final time, washed it with a bitter-smelling handful of oils, and declared it clean. As drained as Thor looked, Sif had to admit the color was already coming back to his skin. 

“Your regenerative magic is somewhat drained from keeping you alive, so the wound will heal slower than usual. Do not overtax yourself. Eat well. Drink plenty of fresh water.”

In a fatherly there-won’t-be-any-discussions tone, Volstagg said, “He will.” 

Thor nodded his agreement. “Thank you.” He was leaning on Sif so heavily she had to dig her heels in to stay standing.

“You are most welcome, Thor Odinsson. If your condition worsens or does not improve, send word for me.” She stowed the fragments in a glass jar and the assistant gathered up the kit. They bowed to all of them. “Lady Sif. Lords Volstagg and Hogun and Thor,” she said, and they quit the tent.

***

Hogun gave Thor a strident smelling tea he obtained from one of the Vanr priests that put Thor out for the rest of the afternoon and through the night. Fandral returned just before dusk with a few souvenirs and welcome news: nothing of the construct army had survived the dissolution of the necromancer’s power. The Ljósálfr healers and Vanr priests set out with the rising of the first moon to begin cleansing the land, and Sif and the Warriors Three helped the Einherjar stand watch at varying intervals.

When Thor woke the following morning he wasn’t in the foul mood Sif expected. Though his shoulder was almost healed through, he was subdued, and the energetic mood of the army preparing to decamp didn’t touch him. In the afternoon a messenger invited him, Sif, Hogun, Fandral, and Volstagg to the Ljósálfr city, where an ambassador wished to speak to them before they moved on. Normally such an opportunity was welcome by all of them, because it meant a chance to eat at a proper household, but Thor listened to Volstagg and Fandral’s plans for the evening with no more enthusiasm than he showed in the general’s war councils.

After the meeting, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, and Sif joined the ambassador and her daughters on a hunting party. Thor stayed behind, claiming he wished to confer with the Ljósálfr generals, though Sif suspected otherwise. Sure enough, upon their return, she found him on the top floor of the winding house, gazing at the Ljósálfr city as twilight crept in. He greeted her with a small smile.

“How was your hunt?”

“We’ll all eat well tonight.” Sif leaned against the railing and studied him; he looked better than he had earlier in the day. “Are you fully healed?”

“It would seem so. Though Hogun’s priests insist I am to drink that vile tea of theirs for another fortnight.”

There was a surliness in his voice that Sif didn’t like. “A small price to pay. That weapon could have killed you.”

Thor looked chagrined. “If not for you it would have.” He took to studying the railing’s woodgrain, running his along it. “You should not have needed to do that. I apologize.”

Sif sighed. “I don’t want apologies from you, I want you to start taking care of yourself again. You are being reckless in a way you have not been since we were children hunting bilgensipe without our parents’ permission.”

Thor mustered a brief smile at the memory, then sobered and contemplated the city. “I do not seek out necromancers wielding magic-poisoned weapons,” he said. 

“Whether you seek them out or they come to you is irrelevant if you will not listen to us when we try to help you.” Thor said nothing, and Sif struggled to hold on to her temper. “Or are you so proud you no longer need our aid?”

He turned to face her, and his expression seemed to waver between annoyance and despair. “You know that is not true.”

“Then why do you behave like it?”

Despair started to win. “That is not my intent.”

“Then what _is_ your intent?” He hesitated, and she wondered why of all the things it had been his obstinance which survived his exile and Loki’s madness, and not something more useful. “It’s unfair of you to do this to us.”

Thor looked at the ground between them, and behind his eyes she saw him come to a decision. He straightened his posture. “Yes, it is.” Sif blinked, because she’d been expecting their fruitless argument to go on for at least another handful of rounds before he started acting sensible. “I apologize, for my recent behavior. I will see that it stops.”

Sif felt something painful shift inside of her. It angered her that the ever-changing nature of Midgard had effected him so profoundly, and yet there was nothing to be done about it. He was as he was, now. She would have to reconcile herself to this new person he was becoming.

She said, “I am sorry about Loki. And I am sorry that you have not been able to keep your word to Jane Foster and her friends.”

Something bleak flickered in Thor’s expression, there and gone in a heartbeat. “Thank you.” His eyes strayed to the faint lights of the Ljósálfr city; they winked in and out as the trees shifted in the evening wind. She had a sense he wanted to say something about all of that, but he didn’t, as had been his habit since bringing Loki back in chains.

Well, she might be stuck with the man he was now, but there were still ways to take his mind off Midgard. “Fandral took a hart, if you still have an appetite for such things.”

He huffed a breath, and it was, she was happy to hear, in good humor. It eased her heart to see him respond to teasing. 

“And now you mock my taste in food.”

“If you are not allergic to anything finer than cured meat, hard cheese, dry bread, and watered-down ale, then please, come and prove it to us.”

He pushed himself away from the railing and they made their way down the stairs. He narrowed his eyes at her and said, “I’ll not be tricked into eating strange organs this time.”

“It’s a hart, not some random beast Volstagg found lurking in a cave.”

“You say that now, but were you there for the dinner preparations? He could have brought anything in when you weren’t looking.”

“Shall I fetch you a taster?”

“Fetch one for yourself, you mean. As I recall, _I_ managed to keep my share of the liver from that beast down.”

“Something truly boast-worthy, considering how disgusting it was. Who knows what that thing survived on.”

Thor laughed, _actually_ laughed, and Sif laughed with him. “Well, I must take my victories where I may,” he said.

“So long as you take them with us.” At the door to the dining hall she put a hand on his chest, forcing him to stop. “You owe apologies to Fandral and Volstagg and Hogun as well.”

He nodded agreement. “They shall have them.”

Sif studied him at length, and he met her gaze with equanimity. Satisfied, she nodded, and he gestured for her to lead the way, which she did with renewed hope.


End file.
